


Safe Word

by AHLICE



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 22:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AHLICE/pseuds/AHLICE
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another life, you would be my boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Word

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks!

  
Harry smokes twice or thrice everyday now, and he isn’t quite sure why, since he knows its killing his lungs like it’s killing Zayn’s, but he smokes anyway outside the flat he and Louis shares. Louis always comes outside while Harry smokes, swats him on the back of his head, and proceeds to share his disgust and shame with Harry about his increasingly-dangerous smoking habit, but Harry knows the right words to shut him up and spits, “I’m not your girlfriend.”  
  
Louis shuts up after that.  
  
“Its ruined my life, you know,” Zayn tells Harry while wagging his cigarette in the air. “You don’t want to start something you may not get out of.” Harry knows this, but he can’t help it—he just can’t. The other boys (probably aside from Zayn) don’t know the feeling of trying to suppress something by overlaying it with something else. They don’t understand that the only way for Harry to take his mind off complicated things is to mask it.  
  
“I know,” Harry says, and then goes to find a bottle of liquor Louis hides under his sink. And that was how the cigarettes smoked on the front steps of his flat turned into cigarettes smoked on the front steps of his flat—and a few cups of liquor, too.  
  
Harry’s ashamed of himself, he really is. His habits are pathetic and—honestly—stupid. In the past year he’s tried to stop maybe about 5 times. But then something rolls by and ruins his day, week, or month, and the pack of cigarettes and brandy hidden under his bed starts to just call his name. Soon enough, he’s curled up on his bed at 2 in the morning—face flushed—cradling a half empty bottle and crushing his fifth cigarette on the ash tray.  
  
It continues to spread Louis and Harry farther and farther apart until Louis can’t bare to be in the same flat with a shit-faced, smoke-stench Harry. Harry may be bigger and broader than Louis, but Harry is still a boy, even at 18, and boys don’t know any better than to find trouble. Anne warned the older man about sharing the same place with someone so young—since young men are in the stage of fighting the irresponsible urges that freedom gives them—but Louis didn’t listen. He thought Harry would be fine if he spent time with someone he could probably look up to.  
  
Someone like himself.  
  
  
  
“Harry, you need to stop.” It’s dinner night when Louis has to unfold himself from Eleanor’s gentle arms and snatch the fourth shot of vodka his flatmate has that night. “You’re going to be a little shit if you drink anymore, yeah?” Harry lazily tries to retrieve his shot as Louis moves it more and more out of the way, causing attention from the other boys and their dates. “ _Harry_ ,” his voice is firm and urgent.  
  
“It’s my last one, mate,” Harry slurs, reaching out to no avail. Louis shoots him a look that can kill and quickly swallows the contents of the shot cup in record timing, and then glides himself back beside Eleanor. Harry—dumbfounded and even slower when intoxicated—shifts his gaze from Louis’ clenched jaw to his girlfriend of a few years, and then frowns, creases forming between his eyebrows. “That was mine.”  
  
“Sit down, Harry,” Liam digs his fingers into Harry’s shoulder, but Harry shrugs him off and takes off towards the kitchen, where more vodka sits, waiting, on the kitchen counter. Before Harry manages to pour himself more, though, Louis is once again removed from Eleanor’s side and next to Harry, grabbing the bottles of alcohol and putting them back in the cabinets.  
  
“Louis—”  
  
“— _Harry_.” Louis’ voice is quavering on absolute rage, but he tries to contain himself, practically shivering with built up pressure. “Go sleep or something, mate, because I can’t keep watching over you when you’re behaving like this. I’m your friend, not your parent.” He tilts his head to get in Harry’s plain line of sight and raises an eyebrow at him. “Right, Harry?”  
  
“I’m tired—” Harry begins, voice gruff and broken. He leans on the counter with his arms, digging his cut nails into the granite tops. “—of living here, Louis.” His glazed, forest green eyes shoots in the shorter boy’s direction. The voices outside the kitchen is minimal, although music is still playing, but both boys know everyone is trying to listen in. Harry is too intoxicated to care, though, and Louis too mad. “I’m tired of—of— _seeing_ you—” he swings his arms in Louis’ direction. “—and seeing _her_ —” he swings his arms in the kitchen entrance’s direction. “—and—and—and— _everything_ , Louis.” He pauses to catch his breath.  
  
Louis is dead silent. The music fills the air between the two for a moment as Harry stares, lost, at the countertops, and Louis measures the profile of his flatmate’s face. The voices in the living room are still hushed. Harry shakes his head, bites his bottom lip, and bows his head further as tears burn his eyes. There’s more silence as Harry tries to contain his emotions—even intoxicated—and then turns his head to stare straight in Louis’ confused, blue eyes.  
  
“Can’t you tell?” Harry’s voice is much, much softer, albeit the bass in his throat gives it volume.  
  
Louis is still unable to say anything. He ends up watching Harry climb the staircase lazily to his bedroom, where he remains the rest of the night.  
  
  
  
No one speaks about what happened that night, even Louis. He finds himself spending more and more nights in Eleanor’s bed than his own; her calming, gentle voice continues to soothe and assure him that maybe he isn’t as fucked up as Harry is, and that maybe he can pretend to be normal for a little while longer. “Just 3 more months, babe,” Eleanor says giddily against his ear. He can barely see her in the dark, but he can feel the excitement in her touch and the sharp inhales she takes.  
  
Louis is tangled in Eleanor’s long limbs as he repeats, a little broken, “ _Three more months, babe_.” Has it really been so long? Aren’t they still too young for love? Louis is only 21; he feels like he still doesn’t know any better. He’s still trying to figure things out in his life that has been a blur for the entirety of his teenage years. But _love_. _In_ love. He fingers her wavy, brown locks while she tries to sleep and stares, restless, at the dark roof. He thinks of Harry, and how maybe the younger lad’s smoking and drinking problem was deeper than immature impulses.  
  
He looks at the profile of Eleanor’s soft face. He can barely make out the shape of her lips, the curve of her nose, the lashes that surround her doe eyes. He reaches out and very gently traces her cheekbones, inhales, and feels sharp pain in his chest when he does. _Three more months_ , he makes out. Eyelids growing heavier, his last thought runs over Harry’s broken face before everything around him blackens.  
  
  
  
Louis curses the puberty that has taken hold of Harry’s body. Even before the younger lad’s mind got a chance to mature, his shoulders broadened, legs stretched, hands grew, voice deepened. And although Harry’s appearance screams _man_ , Louis still sees the uncertain, insecure boy he is, with his legs pressed as close to one another as they can get and his posture not too well.  
  
Everyone sees a grownup. A man who can take care of himself completely and make wise decisions. Louis can only find Harry Styles. And if only his flatmate’s body grew as his mind did, he won’t have issues looking straight into Harry’s eyes rather than up at them. He isn’t going to kid himself: he felt somewhat of jealousy when he remains the same height and size and Harry grows like weeds. It makes him feel less of a man; it makes him feel small and forgotten when Harry flexes his back muscles, or leans over to whisper in his ear.  
  
Maybe that’s why Louis feels more comfortable with Eleanor: a small, slender girl much closer to his size. He can be the man—he can be the one to wrap her up in his arms, guide her without having to get shouldered in the face, kiss her with no effort at all. But Harry—with his boyish demeanor and post-pubescent body—was a completely different story. Harry submits to him, yes, but it isn’t the same. It’ll never be the same.  
  
Louis gets home at 11 at night to a dark flat. The air smells of cooked food, and sitting on the kitchen counters is leftovers from dinner. Dinner that Harry probably ate alone. Louis stares blankly at the pots for a moment before shaking his head and running frustrated fingers through his hair. He feels awful. Really, truly awful. Self-hatred sits in the back of his throat, and no matter how many times he swallows, it won’t go away.  
  
Standing in the silence for a little while longer, Louis wonders if Harry ever left the flat while he was gone. What has he done all these hours, left to himself, left to his thoughts? Oh, God—Louis is a twat. A sudden surge of urgency crashes over his body, and the brunette drops his things onto the couch on his way up the stairs and straight to Harry’s room. He doesn’t bother to knock before he twists the handle and opens the door. It’s equally dark in the room; it stinks of cigarettes and alcohol.  
  
Louis almost can’t speak for a few seconds. His lungs fill with the stench and fear; he can feel his hands starting to shiver in the heat of the bedroom. Hesitating, he takes one, weary step inside the room, squinting at the huge bulge underneath the covers of the bed. Finally he gets to the bedside, back bent slightly to peek at the curly hair sticking out. “ _Harry?_ ” He asks very, very silently.  
  
There’s momentary quiet. And then a low, gruff groan comes from the bedsheets, the bulge shifts restlessly, and then it’s still again. Louis reaches out to touch where he believes Harry’s shoulders are, but freezes instantly when he speaks. “ _Lou_.” The voice is desperate, needy. The evident longing makes Louis’ chest tight and palms sweat; he can finally hear Harry again—the Harry that has been trapped underneath cigarettes smoked outside and several shots of vodka. The Harry Louis knew he has always been in love with, no matter how much he wants to deny it.  
  
 _Harry_. Tears quickly building, Louis holds the bulge in a tight embrace, lifting the upper half of the obviously-intoxicated younger lad from his spot on the bed. A long arm reaches out from underneath the covers and wraps around Louis’ shoulders lazily, and then gradually tightens its hold; Harry’s mouth is close to Louis’ ear as he groans again. “ _Louis_.”  
  
Before Harry can say another word, Louis finds the sides of his face and pulls him in for a hungry kiss. He immediately tastes the smoke and alcohol on his tongue, but Louis didn’t mind because he loves all of Harry Styles: even the irrational, intoxicated, love-drunk Harry Styles.  
  
They kiss until they’re desperate for breath; when Louis pulls away and lets Harry’s head drop back onto the pillow, the unsettling feeling of shame quickly overcomes the older lad. He can see Harry’s still form in the darkness, but cannot gauge his reaction. He’s shivering again, and it’s not even cold. “Y—” Louis begins, but then falls short. Harry’s eyes are glazed as he rolls onto his back, not facing Louis’ direction. It only makes Louis hate himself even more. “—Sor— _ry_ —”  
  
Harry remains still.  
  
Louis feels like death.  
  
  
  
The sexual frustration in the house takes a new height after that day. Louis can’t keep his hands off of Harry’s hair, back, thigh, or biceps. In every waking moment they spent, Louis is touching Harry and he doesn’t even realize it until it’s pointed out by the rest of the boys and made to be a joke. They exchange nervous glances and then look away, unsure of how to even proceed or tackle the new route their relationship has taken.  
  
Louis knows it’s wrong. It’s blatantly and achingly and attractively wrong, but for some reason that’s the best part about it. He touches and kisses and gropes Harry and Harry touches and kisses and gropes back, and no one knows or is supposed to know. It’s a secret, a deadly secret, a taunting secret that both turns on and angers Louis all at once. But when he strokes Harry’s curls and watches as the younger lad falls in and out of sleep, literally nothing else matters. Nothing but the beautiful boy that can slumber peacefully in his arms.  
  
  
  
A month and a half into the undercover relationship puts a strain on Harry and Louis’ interaction. It becomes less about their love and more about all the wedding plans Eleanor, Louis, and both the couple’s parents have set up and are ready to do. Louis must make a checklist with Eleanor every week and make sure they’re done within 7 days, which prevents any alone or downtime with him and his flatmate. He can tell Harry hates it—all of it—but Louis is not a man to break down and call off plans when he and Eleanor have been so ready for it for so long. It hurts, but Louis is stuck in a hard spot; he can’t abandon ship when Eleanor is depending on him emotionally.  
  
He loves Eleanor—it’s true, painfully true. For all these years they were a unit; they were much more than just a relationship: Eleanor and Louis were best friends, psychiatrists, parents, and lovers. They supported each other, lifted one another up when they were feeling their worst, let one another be when they just wanted to be left alone. Although Louis’ discovering of his love for Harry was new [he now realizes he’s been in love with Harry for years], he doesn’t forget everything he and Eleanor have been through.  
  
They were so close Eleanor can sense her fiancè’s increasing cold feet. She massages his arms and shoulders when they went out and got their tuxedos and wedding dresses tailored; she holds him close when they enter the chapel they plan to get married in. She tries everything she can to get Louis to be more comfortable with the thought of being her husband, but he barely budges. She begins to feel a little worried and desperate, but she can tell he’s trying to be supportive and open to everything. She wants him to feel as secure as she is about the decision.  
  
She doesn’t want to be the only one in love.  
  
  
  
Harry finds his hands on alcohol and smokes again and Louis finds himself shouting at the top of his lungs at the young lad. “You’re an annoying shit, you know that, Harry?” He spits from inside the kitchen. When Harry doesn’t respond fast enough, he storms out of the kitchen and into to living room, where his flatmate sits, tipsy and with a cigarette dangling between his pink lips. “I can’t fucking stand you anymore!”  
  
“Yeah? Well, you’re an annoying shit, too,” Harry says without looking up from his spot on the couch. “I’m tired of hearing about your goddamn plans and your goddamn life.” His voice almost slurs the words, each syllable filling with hate.  
  
“Really now?” Louis asks.  
  
“Really.” Harry confirms, taking another sip of his shot.  
  
Louis doesn’t feel like himself. Snatching his keys off of the coffee table, he spits, “Well I’m moving out soon, anyway, so you can enjoy drinking yourself to death alone!” He angrily swipes at his shoes, tears building in his rage-filled eyes. “I do all this shit for you, Harry, but all you do is slap everything back in my goddamn face. I’m tired—just _tired_ —of living here when you can’t do anything for yourself!” He finally manages to get his shoes on and is nearly out the door when he hears Harry begin to speak.  
  
“ _Louis_ ,” his deep voice cries out from the living room. Louis freezes right at the front of the flat and listens intently. “Louis—I’m sorry! Please come back, Louis.” Short pause. And then a louder: “ _Louis_!”  
  
The older lad takes a deep breath, trying to control himself. The air feels thinner and he can’t seem to get enough oxygen to his lungs; his head is light. He inches in the direction of Harry, pauses to really think about it, and then proceeds slowly again. When he turns the corner, Harry is spread across the couch, empty shot glass dangling in his large hand, eyes floating towards Louis’ concerned face. Louis’ face hardens some as he looks from the glass to Harry’s face, but he realizes he can’t possibly be mad long enough at Harry when he was giving him those goddamn eyes.  
  
“Hazza,” Louis calls out softly, and then approaches his flatmate’s side. When he gets close enough, Harry holds him tight as if he hasn’t seen the older lad in a while; his body is shivering slightly, half in need, half because he’s suppressing inevitable tears. Louis discovers then that Harry isn’t the Harry Styles he always knew. Harry has certainly changed; he isn’t sure if it’s because of his influence, but Harry is a different boy. A different _man_.  
  
“ _I love you_.”  
  
Time seems to stop for an instant. While Louis reels over what just slipped from his mouth, Harry pulls the boy over him and runs his hand up and down his lean back. There’s painful silence as they wrap one another in an embrace, the clock on the living room wall ticking endlessly. Louis wonders—as he lay in the arms of his love—if this is finally the end. There is nothing more either boy can do to keep them together; they’re gradually splitting in separate directions, and although it’s gradual, the pace is still alarmingly fast.  
  
Harry shifts, pauses, shifts, and then speaks. “When is the marriage again?”  
  
Louis is taken aback. His blue eyes trail from the younger lad’s chest to his face, and then he swallows hard. Mouth suddenly running dry, he parts his chapped lips to respond. “Another month. Probably.”  
  
Harry’s eyes close as if he’s just come over with chest pain. Fingers gently playing with the hair on the nape of Louis’ neck, he nods ever-so-slightly. “In another life, maybe,” he mumbles, more to himself than to his lover.  
  
“In another life?”  
  
“. . . You would be mine.”  
  
  
  
The wedding is painful. All of the boys, all of their families, and all of their friends gather in the church and dab at their wet eyes as Eleanor Calder and Louis Tomlinson stand at the front. There’s dead silence—even from the small children—as the minister reads his lines, and allows the couple to finally kiss and become husband and wife. The flower girls throw confetti and the crowd erupts in joyful cries and sobs; Harry feels as if he’s in a bad dream. Everything around him is spinning as hugs are shared and kisses pass along, cheek to cheek.  
  
There are so many words grumbling in the back of his throat, but he says nothing and tries his best at a smile. Louis carries Eleanor down the small steps and down the middle of the church; their family watch and holler and cry some more. Harry tries to be happy, but nothing comes to him. He’s in the crowd, looking into another world. Soon Eleanor will be pregnant, Louis will have his first child, and Harry will continue to drift off somewhere unknown.  
  
Louis’ eyes catch Harry’s. They lock gazes and can’t look away for a few mere seconds. So many things to say dances on Harry’s pink lips, but he knows he can’t speak them. He knows this because there’s no safe words that’ll continue to hide their love.  
  
There’s no safe words that’ll show Louis—and only Louis—how much he means to him.


End file.
